Walk Until You Break, Then Walk Some More
by GenuinelyEnigmatic
Summary: John Watson has the lost the one who he loved. And Christ, but it hurts...  Sequel to my other story "The Good Doctor". Advisable to read that one first
1. Chapter 1

**Well... I'm baaaaack :) Hope you enjoy this one too... Wrote it at two in the morning, No Idea what it'll be like. Apologies in advance**

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><p>John first attempts suicide six months after Sherlock's death.<p>

There was no great epiphany, no great realisation, there was just too much. Too much of the too muchness. Just too much broken, too much feeling, too much void in his chest. If he goes away so does the broken, so does the feeling and so does the void. It can all just go away and for once, John can be somewhere, anywhere, that isn't Sherlock. Somewhere that doesn't scream the dead detective's name. He'd like that.

So, calmly, he takes far too much medicine, and the world fades away from John Watson.

He wakes up in hospital with a headache, tubes in his arms and Mycroft Holmes sitting by the window.

Mycroft jumps to his feet and tells him he shouldn't have done what he did. Mycroft tells John that he is an idiot and that Sherlock would never have wanted him dead. Not ever. Sherlock Holmes would not have ever wanted John Watson dead, and neither does Mycroft, Mycroft will protect him, for John's sake. For Sherlock's...

John doesn't say anything, his throat hurts – he assumes he vomited up the poison – he uses this as excuse not to talk. He's not thinking too much either, he uses the drugs as an excuse for this too. John's none too fond of either talking or thinking these days. Hurts too much, and he doesn't mean the acid feeling in his throat or the pounding in his head. He's tried to walk, to walk without breaking, he's tried so _hard.._. He's discovered that learning to walk is harder the second time round, especially once you've realised that it's possible, just sometimes, with a special someone, for you to fly.

John doesn't fly anymore. John doesn't even walk. John just stares, and, for a long while, Mycroft stares back.

One hour later, Mycroft Holmes shudders, collapses into a chair, and cries.

John Watson just stares, wishing away the broken.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ok... Not too sure about this one. Not sure I like how it turned out. Please do let me know if it's absolute bullshit :)**

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><p>Two weeks after John tries to kill himself, he moves in with his sister.<p>

He doesn't particularly want to, he doesn't hate it, but he doesn't want to. John Watson can do without a lot of things, and his sister is definitely on the list, somewhere in the middle, next to the spiders.

In some part of his mind, he wonders how Harry even knows, he sure as hell didn't tell her. John eventually decides that it's Mycroft's fault. John is of the general opinion that most things are Mycroft's fault. He has yet to be proved wrong.

John finds adjusting to Harry extremely difficult. He's certain that she finds it extremely difficult as well, but he can't bring himself to care that much. He supposes this should bother him. If there's one thing he's always known, it's that he is a caring man, now he just doesn't give a shit. He waits to feel disturbed by that thought. He waits a rather long time.

He feels hollow when it doesn't come.

Harry tries very hard to look after John. He finds this both touching and very fucking infuriating. As the weeks go on he finds it steadily less touching and much more infuriating. His sister treats him like he's made of glass, in some ways he supposes he is, but he doesn't need to see it every day in her eyes. He doesn't need to feel it every day in the way she touches him. He doesn't need to hear it _every __**day **_in the words that stay unsaid. In the name he knows she'll never speak. The name he longs to hear, even if it's just from his over-bearing, unreliable, alcoholic sister.

She never does it though, she just stares at him with pity in her eyes. John often finds himself needing to leave the room to punch a wall.

Late at night, John cries, he cries so hard that it hurts his insides. He wraps his arms tightly around himself and hopes he doesn't simply tear apart.

Three months after moving in Harry, John leaves. He stays with a friend from the army- a friend who won't ask questions, a friend who won't make him tea and a friend who doesn't have a clue who the hell Sherlock Holmes was. He reckons this is better than being with Harry.

John Watson is absolutely fine. He gets up in the morning, he goes to work, comes home, makes dinner and watches Corination Street.

And late at night he cries, arms wrapped tight around himself.

Hoping he doesn't tear apart.

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><p><strong>Reviews would be lovely :) And if you can't be bothered... Well, that's cool too:) I am more than familiar with <em>that<em> feeling**


	3. Chapter 3

13 months after the death of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson finds himself moving on.

The shock of it sweeps him of his not-so-well-planted feet.

He meets her in the cemetery, John is standing at Sherlock's grave, he's crying again, not the heart wrenching sobs that used to be, but still tears. Heart-felt, pain-filled tears. Absolutely silent and absolutely private. Tears that no-one else intrudes on.

Until her, apparently.

She notices him crying, notices what is private. She knows what this is.

She walks over to him anyway. She places a hand on his shoulder and tells him that it eventually gets better - that's what things do y'see, they get better. John stares at her for a moment, thinking he should resent the intrusion. He doesn't. Instead, he stops crying –after a while- and lets this woman hug him. It makes things feel better, so he doesn't push her away, though he thinks he probably should.

John doesn't really understand why he trusts her to get this close to him. He doesn't really trust anyone, especially not after everything, but something about this woman sets him at a kind of peace. He thinks it might be her eyes, blue, filled with understanding and totally without that infuriating pity. He thinks that it maybe it's the odd compassion; coming over to a man she doesn't know simply because he looked a silent kind of heart-broken.

Mostly he thinks that it's because of the five-year-old blonde boy hanging off her hand, staring at him. John stares back for a while, he doesn't know how long he stares but, eventually, the boy smiles. The boy tells John that being sad is fine, that mummy is sad sometimes but she always stops when she gets a hug, makes sure she's not sad for Too Long, y'see, because that is Not A Good Thing. The boy tells John that he looks like he's been sad for Too Long, he says John should stop now. And then the boy hugs him. The small boy hugs the broken soldier tightly round the middle.

And John smiles.

John smiles a real, heart-lifting, head-splitting-til-you-almost-laugh smile. The first proper one in over a year... John smiles the smile that was needed. The boy hugs the hug that was needed. And life shifts back into a life that can be lived.

He pats the boy on the head as the child pulls away. John is still smiling. Crying as well, he realises, but mostly smiling. He feels... lighter... the concrete filled void in his chest no longer drags him to his knees. It's still heavy, yes, but it no longer pulls him down to the breaking.

The boy's mother smiles at John, John starts to smile back. Smiling feels so much easier now, easier than it has in a long, long time.

Before the two can leave, John stops them. He asks the woman if she would like some coffee and, if she would, would she like to get it with him? She says yes. She says yes and she becomes important.

Mary and Thomas Morstan become oh so very important indeed.

Smiling feels so much easier now.


	4. Chapter 4

**For those who pay attention, yes I changed the name from Lucy to Mary. Felt like making it a bit more canon. And if you didn't notice... Well, I probably wouldn't have either:)**

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><p>John and Mary fit together oh so well, in a way that John hasn't fit with anyone in a long, long time.<p>

He fits in with her life and she with his.

He feels at home in her house, she loves to have him round for dinner. When he discovers a new, Sherlock induced, hate of action movies, she hugs him comfortingly and tells him not be such a girl or no-one will ever want to shag him. He loves playing with her son, Thomas, and Thomas loves to jump on John's stomach when he lets his guard down and foolishly dozes off on the couch.

Most importantly John doesn't shatter when Mary is there. He doesn't shatter when Mary has her arms around him. It's not perfect, of course. It couldn't possibly be perfect, not after Everything That Has Happened. He still wakes screaming if he dreams a dream of Sherlock's pavement blood. He still falters in his steps if the weight of the Dead Detective becomes too heavy in his heart. And he still cracks if he sees a tall man in a dark coat striding purposefully through the streets of London. With Mary it's just easier to bounce back, easier to duct tape over the cracks, easier to fall back to sleep and easier to pick himself back up and fit the pieces together in the right order. He's not healed, not by a long-shot, but he's getting there. He's getting there with Mary by his side. And That Is What Matters.

In six weeks John is closer to her than he's been to anyone in more than a year. Closer to her than he is to Harry. Closer to her than he is to Mrs Hudson, to Lestrade or to Stamford, so it's not really surprising when they fall into bed together after only that long. It's not surprising when John moves in after three months. And it's not surprising when John proposes six months after they met.

Well, it doesn't surprise John and Mary, it surprises everyone else. Except Mycroft, but John didn't expect to surprise Mycroft. Between the constant, compulsory, for-Sherlock's-sake suicide watch and Holmesian eyes that always see Far Too Much, John would have died of shock had Mycroft Holmes _not _known.

The wedding is quiet, small and intimate. John invites what his left of his family – Greg, Mike, Harry and Molly. He doesn't invite Mycroft, fully expecting him to turn up anyway, and thanks God when he does. Mary invites her sister and some friends from work. Thomas bears the rings, Greg is the best man and Mary's sister is the maid of honour.

Yes, the wedding is small. But the couple love each other, they love the boy that is now _their_ son, they love the people around them and the people around love them.

But the gap does not go unnoticed. The gap where Sherlock Holmes isn't. The gap that John filled with anguish an age of time ago. The gap that, no matter what anyone says, everyone does their damndest to ignore, their absolute best to not mention. Not today.

John Watson and Mary Morstan are happy with their lives. They have a son to love, scold and dote upon. They have a house to keep clean, stain with tea and consider selling. They have love that they savour, enjoy and add to. John has not been happier in a long, long time...

The gap does not go unnoticed.


	5. Chapter 5

Two years and six months since the detective fell and John is unbelievably happy.

He has a steady, reasonable income in a job that he doesn't hate. His six-year old step-son is excelling in school and football. And his wife just gave birth to his first, beautiful, breath-taking baby boy. John can hardly talk, he can hardly think, hardly move. He can only stare at his son –his_ son _for chrissake- and smile like an idiot.

It had been an easy pregnancy for Mary - not too painful, not too moody, nothing like Thomas - if not so easy on John, and it had been an easy c-section birth, if really not so easy on John. He's been terrified. From the moment he found out the baby existed, to when Mary had started staying home and eating all the ice-cream, all the way up to when he'd had a _fuckingheartattackJesus! _because his beautiful child, his little ball of abject terror had decided to be born six weeks earlier than he should have.

Little bugger.

John's still terrified of course, he's no real reason not to be as far as he's concerned. This is more of a challenge than all of Afghanistan put together. His only consolation is that this time maybe he won't get shot, though he's not really certain.

John's terror does not abate when they bring the baby home. It does not stop pulsing through his skull when Thomas wants to hold his baby brother. It doesn't stop flowing through his heart when he and Mary and Thomas sit, cuddled up on the sofa, still trying to think of a name.

The love outweighs the terror though, as love is wont to do. There's nothing he'd rather have in his life than this child. Nothing at all. Not even... but John stops himself before he can finish that thought. He Absolutely Will Not Think Of That. Not when he's sitting here, with his family, just enjoying.

After a couple of days of not being able to think of a name, Mary takes to calling him 'the second born', as does Thomas. John laughs and asks what he's meant to call him, after all, it's _his_ first born. Mary laughs at him and tells him not be an idiot. If John goes around calling him 'first born' he might give the poor lad a complex. John pretends to sulk until Mary comes and kisses him and tells him that not-even-Thomas-sulks-like-that-you-doofus and could-he-make-her-some-tea-thank-you-very-much-love.

It's only at night that John finds himself completely overwhelmed. The second born comes home from the hospital and with him comes the nightmares. The nightmares come a-travelling back and abuse his mind while he sleeps. He dreams of Sherlock, of the fall, of Moriarty and the pool and the blood and the fire and the pain. He wakes sweating, wondering what kind of world he's just brought this child into, whether it can possibly be _right_ to make anyone suffer through what everyone seems to suffer through every _fucking **day**_...

He never regrets it though. Not once, not once the second born is back in his arms, breathing and throwing up and just being Absolutely Perfect.

He feels a stab of pain when they begin to seriously consider names. He wants to suggest... He wants to name his son after the bravest, most human human he's ever met. He wants to name his son after the dead man. He wants it so badly it claws at his insides, making the long-forgotten concrete pull at his core, trying to drag him downwards.

Thomas suggests Pikachu and is quickly and quietly discounted for not being a Sensible Person. Mary suggests Cordell maybe, or perhaps Christopher? John opens his mouth. He desperately wants to say it. More than anything he wants to say _Let's call him Sherlock. I once knew a man called Sherlock. Let's call the second born Sherlock..._

He doesn't.

He finds his mouth making the name Ewan. Finds himself saying that he's always loved that name. He's not lying, but it isn't truth either. Wanting to call the second born Ewan is not truth. It's just fear, fear of the maybes. Fear of the pain that the name Sherlock might cause, of how hard it would be. He'd never forgive himself if he began to fear his son called Sherlock. If he began to hate him for not being the Man That Was and just being the Man That He is.

The risk is not taken. They talk for a few more hours. Thomas is quickly and quietly discounted for not being a Sensible Person and is eventually put to bed. Tea is brewed, sipped and left to go cold. Late that night, in front of the television, they decide on the name Ewan. John wants to take it back, he wants to tell Mary that he once knew this man named Sherlock, and what a fantastic man he was, what a fantastic man he became. John wants so desperately to say _Let's call him Sherlock..._

He doesn't.

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><p><strong>I don't suppose I could trouble you for some reviews, could I? :)<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Ok, _really_ not sure about this chapter... Pretty sure it's kind of shit. Do let me know if it's absolute rubbish, yeah?**

**And to the person who reviewed under the name Annie, well, it's sort of a line from the other story that I wrote which is a prequel to this one. I'm sure I've heard something like it before but buggered if I know where or what it was. Firefly's the closest thing I can think of; "If you can't walk you crawl, and if you can't do that... you find someone to carry you." But basically my answer is: No Idea :)**

**Wow, now it looks like a proper authors note. My word.**

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><p>Almost three years since the death of his best friend and John Watson is out in his back garden, watering the dog.<p>

The dog's a recent acquisition, a rescue that he was bullied mercilessly into keeping by his wife and son. He's not sure it's a good idea, having this Border-Collie-Kelpie-Thing around while the six month old sticky boy-child is living in the crib upstairs, but Thomas loves it, Mary loves it and John... Well, John loves Thomas and Mary. He does like the dog, don't get him wrong, but it does eats an _awful_ lot, it takes up a lot of space, a lot of time and it doesn't pay rent. On top of everything, Thomas decides to call the dog Spencer, which John Does Not Understand At All.

The dog's a girl.

Spencer's good to have around though, he admits. She distracts Thomas from wanting to play football with the baby (Thomas doesn't understand why Ewan can't play), she distracts Mary when Mary's hormonesmake her want to kill something and, much as John is loathe to admit it, the dog is a little bit wonderful and he supposes he does love her... y'know, just a little bit.

She stinks though. She stinks an awful lot. John tells Mary that the dog is stinking. She just drags him outside, gives the hose, points at Spencer and tells him to have fun. Spencer has fun, turns out she loves hoses. John has less fun, he really liked this jumper and now it's covered in dog hair and wetness. Spencer doesn't have fun when it comes time for the towelling off, John feels like he should be able to take vindictive pleasure in that, he feels like he probably would too, were he able to keep the dog still long enough to do any towelling. He tries very hard for a very long time before giving up and yelling for Mary. Spencer slips in through the open door, triumphant. John is left covered in mud, dog hair and failure. Mary laughs and John goes off to sulk in the bathroom.

When he sees himself in the mirror he laughs. He looks like a right tit, if he's being honest. He opens his mouth to call out for Thomas to come and see what an idiot his dad looks.

Sherlock's name almost comes out instead.

John stares at himself in the mirror, shocked. John's shocked by the name, the fact that it was there, where it has no bussiness _being _anymore for _fuckssake... _John's shocked by the fact that it hurt so much when he almost said it. John wonders if actually saying it would have hurt more or hurt less than the almost saying it. He doesn't know. John's never been sure whether the actually hurts more than the almost. He stares at himself a while longer, thinking he looks like a ghost. In a way he supposes he is, but it's Sherlock's ghost he's seeing in the mirror today, not his own.

Eventually he shakes his head, has a shower and goes to eat a sandwich. The rest of the day becomes hazy, pain-filled and heavy. Mary notices but she says nothing, sitting by him and making him tea. She knows what this is. She knows what not to touch.

John knows he'll never get over it completely. He knows that Sherlock attacks him sometimes, attacks him when he's not looking. Love does that, he supposes. He wonders if the Sherlock-love would attack him so hard if he'd actually been able to share it with Sherlock, if John had told him when he was alive that he loved him. He wonders if the concrete would have been so heavy if he hadn't missed out like he did, if he'd had those opportunities. He sighs and resigns himself to the not knowing.

Tomorrow, he'll play with his boys, he'll cook breakfast, kiss his wife and makes plans for Thomas' birthday. Tomorrow he'll work, help the sick and feel the effects of having a baby ruin his sleeping patterns. Tomorrow he'll water the dog.

And he'll wonder. At the things he'll never know, at the missed opportunities. And he'll resign himself to the not knowing.

After all, John's never been sure whether the actually hurts more than the almost.

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><p><strong>Any reviews perchance? :)<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

Three years and four months since the great detective, and John Watson is running very late indeed.

He's meant to have left the house 45 minutes ago but both Mary _and _Thomas are ridiculously ill with the flu and the atmosphere in the house is... rather tense... so John spends his morning making them as comfortable as he can with tea and blankets and running out early to the chemist to buy medicine. He has to go back out to the chemist a little bit later and buy some more because Thomas has an allergy to something in the first stuff. Something which he'd forgotten until Mary had gently reminded him. John's extremely thankful that he ducked. Those medicine bottles are heavy and he likes things better when there's no blood oozing out of his head.

Then he has to call Mary's sister, hoping against hope that she could come and look after Ewan. She eventually says yes, but Ewan must come to her. John Absolutely Does Not Swear, takes a deep breath, thanks her very much and says he'll be there soon. He grabs the second born, kisses the first born on his head, tells his wife were he's going and rushes out the door. Ten minutes go by til he rushes back in, picks up Ewan's nappies, food and favourite toys, hits his head on a cupboard, swears and fuck's off out the door as fast as he possibly can. He gets to his sister in-law's in record, law-breaking time, dumps the child as fast as he can without hurting anyone and is in the hallway when he realises he didn't call work to tell them he'd be late. He pauses for a second to beat his head quietly but viciously against the door, before taking a deep breath and heading to the car. Fully prepared to call his boss Nina as soon he's in the driver's seat and grovel shamelessly.

John Watson walks out of his sister in-law's house. He sighs long and he sighs hard. Then, quiet, calm, and collected, he gets into the back of the black car that's sitting on the road, staring intensely at Mycroft Holmes as he does. Mycroft Holmes stares back.

John doesn't say anything as they drive off. He doesn't think there's much point, they're going where they're going. Nothing John says will change that, so he decides to save his breath for later. He's sure they'll be plenty of time for yelling, swearing and other assorted heavy-breathing-inducing activities. Like punching Mycroft in the face. John's content to wait.

When it's clear they're heading for as far away as it's possible to be from his house, John decides it's probably time to text his wife and tell her he's been kidnapped. She needs to know in case he's not home in time to cook dinner. He tells Mycroft the same thing. Mycroft tells him that's a good idea, as this could take a while. John's head snaps up so fast he almost gets whiplash. He knows that tone. That's Mycroft's 'I Am Immensely Worried About A Certain Consulting Detective That We Both Know And Love' tone. John knows that tone intimately. And Holmes has absolutely no business using it. Not anymore. It makes John a bit angry, so he abruptly demands to know where they are going and why the fuck are they going there in the first place for chrissake? He stops as he realises that he is swearing far too much and reigns himself in. He shouldn't be swearing at all really, he and Mary agreed to set a good example for the kids... his mental monologue stops when Mycroft sighs. John's never heard Mycroft sigh like that before. It worries him.

Mycroft says it's better for John to see for himself. At least he thinks it is, anyway. He doesn't know at this point. Mycroft guesses that they'll know soon enough so why worry. John's never heard Mycroft admit fallibility like that before. It worries him... almost to the point of vomiting.

They eventually hit a small estate in the East End. John has a feeling that the small estate is about to hit back. Hard. In delicate areas.

When they get to the flat on the fifth floor John's adrenalin is pumping and his hands are perfectly steady. Before they go in, Mycroft places a hand on John's shoulder, stopping him for a moment. The gentle hand on John's shoulder makes his stomach clench, Mycroft has never touched him before. The look in Mycroft's eyes makes his heart skip a beat, John's never seen that look, not in Mycroft's eyes. The soft voice telling him to '_Be strong, John Watson, and try and understand. Please.' _makes him want to cry, it makes him want to run. John Watson wants to run, so far and so very fast to a place that is Anywhere but Here, this place that can make Mycroft Holmes beg. John asks if Mycroft is coming in with him. He is not surprised when the other man shakes his head, convulsively tightens his grip on his umbrella and then walks away. There's really nothing surprising in it, here in this place that make the British Government beg.

John nods, turns around, and opens the door. And is greeted by a ghost.

Frozen, with his mouth hanging open and his heart beating fast enough to escape his chest, John hears the voice. A voice that he should never have been able to hear again, because Those Are The Rules God _damn_ Him...

The voice is filled with anxiety to explain, gentleness and absolute warmth. The tone of voice that has, to John, always meant love, safety and friendship, when the tone comes from a certain dead man.

John knows that tone intimately. And Holmes has absolutely no business using it. Not anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry this took so long, school's been a bit hectic**

**Life does that, apparently**

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><p>A little over three years since the death of his Sherlock and Dr John Watson of 5th Northumberland Fusiliers decides that life would be much easier were he unconscious. So he faints.<p>

When he comes to he's just confused at not waking up in his own bed. And why exactly does his head this much? It takes a few seconds for anything resembling concentration to penetrate his brain, when it does, he remembers. He remembers and sits up so fast that he almost vomits.

Some part of his brain registers a probable concussion but it's not important right now. His head's not important, where he is is not important, not even his family's that important right now. The person standing by the window is important. The person standing by the window is so important that it hurts.

It's not a phrase, it's not an affectation or metaphor. The man by the window makes him hurt, Sherlock Holmes is making him hurt all over again, making the concrete at his core as heavy as it ever was. Making that concrete pull him down, down towards the breaking. Again.

Bastard.

Sherlock realises that John's awake and walks towards him, probably to check that he's not about to faint again. Sherlock Holmes is walking towards him. His Sherlock. His dead, bleeding, beaten Sherlock is walking towards him. And John can't handle it. He can't handle this at all.

When Sherlock kneels down in front of him, hands reaching out to check the sore spot on his head, John snaps. It's not a loud, clean snap. It's quiet and it compounds and it fractures and shatters, cracks spreading like wildfire along the bone. John Watson snaps more quietly and efficiently than he ever has in his entire life. And as John Watson snaps, so does Sherlock's nose, helped along by John's fist.

Some part of John -the kind compassionate, rational part- registers what he's done, registers that he's just attacked his best friend and that's not _right_. But a bigger part –the part of hurt and rage and fury and such _pain_- roars back, shouts the smaller part into submission. Sherlock attacked _him_. Attacked him more efficiently and more painfully than John could ever hope to do back to him. Sherlock's been attacking John for fucking _years _now.

Sherlock's on the floor, holding a hand to his face to try and stop the bleeding. He's pleading, pleading with John to calm down, to please just stop, please just listen, that there's a reason, he promises, just please John, please just stop. _Please._

John's fury alarms him, it alarms that small, rational part left in his brain. But the small rational part isn't in the driver's seat right now, please leave your name and number and we'll get back to you. The fury makes John snarl at the prone figure on the ground. How could he do this to him? Does he have a fucking _clue _what it's been like? What it is Sherlock did to him, what he did to Mycroft and did Mycroft _know_? And just what the fuck did he think he was doing and Oh God he can't fucking handle this, it's too much and he has a son now and a wife and what the fuck is he meant to do about that? Because Sherlock can't just fit there in that life and even if he could John doesn't want him to, not now, he can't. Can't handle. He just can't.

This is too much and he's sorry.

He just can't.

John ignores the man on the floor as he staggers out of the flat, ignores the cries of the protest as he almost falls down the corridor, ignores the pleas and the concern as he wrenches himself down the stairs. If he ignores it, he doesn't have to deal with it. Doesn't have to deal with the pain in his chest or the concrete at his core. Doesn't have to deal with the shakes and the voice of recrimination as his fury and his adrenalin wears off. Doesn't have to deal with the fact that all those tears and sobs and dry heaving and grief was all absolute bullshit.

John ignores the yelling man as the leaves the block of flats.

He ignores Mycroft as well, ignores his words, his questions and his concerned tone. He ignores Mycroft until the other man places a hand on his arm, stopping him. He places a hand on John's arm and squeezes, just a little, just enough to give the impression of solidarity. John ignores Mycroft until Mycroft does something human.

And then John is squeezing back. John is grabbing Mycroft's arm and squeezing hard enough to hurt. John is holding and squeezing and then he's falling. Falling into Mycroft. And Mycroft is catching him. Mycroft is guiding him down to the ground and Mycroft is at the stage of Never Letting Go. John can feel it.

Sherlock Holmes' presence next to them goes absolutely unnoticed.

Mycroft sits there, on the ground, with John in that filthy estate. He gets his suit dirty, he puts down his umbrella and he holds onto John, and John clings to him.

Mycroft Holmes will hold John Watson until it is over. Until the sobs stop, until John can breathe and think and move again. He will hold him until the concrete is light enough again for John to stand, light enough that, with a bit of help, he'll be able to walk again. He will hold him until John goes home to his family, to his boys and his wife. He will hold him as explanations are given and arrangements are made. He will hold him until John is safe and then, only when John is as safe as Mycroft can make him, he will let go.

But for now, he will sit on the ground in this filthy estate, he will put his umbrella down and he will get his suit dirty. He will do something human.

Mycroft Holmes will hold John Watson until it is over.

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><p><strong>Reviews would be lovely :)<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**I am so sorry that this took so long, school, work and theatre productions have not been kind to me. I just hope you guys haven'tleft me for more reliable authors...**

**Just as a quick aside, The movie Third Star, starring Benedict Cumberbatch, is absolutely heart breaking. I watched in an hour ago and I can't even find the words. Films don't tend to move me like this but...  
><strong>

**If you can, go and watch it. The song at the end is... beautiful.**

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><p>It took John Watson a long time to adjust to the death of his best friend. A long time.<p>

John wonders how long it will take to get used to the fact that his best friend isn't dead. That his best friend is alive and breathing and walking and talking and being an arrogant, intelligent fuck.

He thinks it might take a while.

John used to dream of Sherlock being alive. Used to dream of Sherlock suddenly walking back into his flat, back into his life. Walking back and telling him his clever plan, how he fooled Moriarty, how he faked his own death, how he was clever and brilliant and fantastic and all that had happened was just a lie.

John used to dream of Sherlock being alive.

The reality is different.

The reality of Sherlock being alive, John decides, hurts a lot more than it did in the dreaming. He never dreamt of the feeling of betrayal that would attack his core, or of how the anger would attack his head, or how that feeling of loss that centred in his heart would just... stay there. John thinks that the other two feelings are reasonably fair and relatively unsurprising but he had always dreamt of the loss leaving his heart. He doesn't understand why it persists, but he wishes desperately that it would leave. It hurts.

Mary's doing a fantastic job, she really is. She's what's keeping him together, handing him duct tape for the cracks before he even realizes he needs it. She does so much and John can't even begin to thank her. He tries, once. The words won't come out, they just get stuck there, right at the top of his throat. He receives a sad smile a quiet _I know _for his efforts and with it, the knot in his chest tightens and the concrete grows heavier.

But he will not fall apart. Not this time. This time he has something this time; something to stay strong for, something to keep him strong. He has his family and he Will Not Fall Apart. He will stay strong for his boys and for his wife and for his dog because they Cannot See This. The simply cannot. He will not fall apart on his family.

No matter how fucking hard it is.

No matter how fucking hard it is, the reappearance of Sherlock Holmes will not disrupt this family that he has built.

The voice in the back of John's head tells him that it won't be that simple. Not by a long shot. The voice tells him that he is being silly. Sherlock will disrupt his life, Sherlock will always disrupt his life. The voice tells him that he should be grateful for the fact that Sherlock is around _to _disrupt his life. It tells him that this is what he has been wishing for for the past three years, how can the return of his best friend possibly be a bad thing? It tells him that disrupt does not always necessarily mean destroy.

Helped along by Mary and by his children and by- of all people- Mycroft, the voice slowly, oh so infinitely slowly, takes more and more hold on John. It takes days, weeks, for it to be noticeable but the anger slowly abates, the betrayal fades slightly, the hurt becomes less heavy.

It takes days, weeks, for it to happen but, eventually, John is ready. He tells his wife, she smiles a real smile and tells him she loves him. He tells his kids, they hug him because now he Will Not Be Sad Anymore (well, Thomas does, Ewan lies there a burbles, but John likes to think that the tiny human knows, on some level). He even tells the dog, she solemnly looks him in the eye and licks his cheek, John suspects she understands what is going on better than even he does.

Finally he tells Mycroft, the man smiles over the phone and sends a car. It takes much deep breathing and copious amounts of tea, but John eventually gets in. He spends the drive quietly trying to remember how to breathe.

Too quickly, they get where they are going, and John wants to get very quickly and very quietly back in the car. It's safe in the car, it hurts less in the car.

It's too late though, Mrs Hudson's already seen him through her curtains and opens the door. John takes a deep breath and tells himself that this is a good idea, even if feels more like a heart attack, that this will make him feel better. Besides, it's his move, his turn to do something. And even if it wasn't, he has to do something about this and he has to do it now. He has to do it now or he never will.

And John Watson will be damned if he will lose his best friend a second time.

John takes a deep breath, goes up the stairs and enters their –Sherlock's- _their _flat without knocking.

Sherlock's standing in an instant, turning to John, watching his face, watching to see how he'll react, how the other man feels, watching for answers. John stares back, waiting.

It takes a little while, an eternity for John and no more than 30 second for Sherlock for the answers to be found. Sherlock holds his arms out and suddenly they're both moving, collapsing on each other in the middle of the room. John buries his head in Sherlock's chest and sobs his heart out. Sherlock hides his face in John's hair and holds him hard and close enough to hurt. John thinks that Sherlock might be crying too, but he's not certain til John feels wetness on his head.

They bury themselves in each other for a long, long time. Long enough for Mrs Hudson to come up and check on them. Neither of them notice her, she doesn't exist yet, she doesn't exist and neither does Mary or Thomas or Ewan or Mycroft.

All there is right now is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

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><p><strong>Reviews would be lovely?<br>**


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